


Where my dreams are made of gold

by lunasenzanotte



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Character Death, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Sexual Content, Painting, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-03-01 15:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18803332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte/pseuds/lunasenzanotte
Summary: After leaving Florence, Milan and Verona, Giampaolo gets invited to court in Modena. He hates the city, hates the court, hates the work, and most of all, he hates the Duke’s annoying nephew. To his dismay, Riccardo seems to be smitten with all of it.Which proves to have terrible, terrible consequences…





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeapAngstily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/gifts), [behzaintfunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/behzaintfunny/gifts), [TheBlackWook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackWook/gifts).



> A sequel to [No world is far from wherever you are](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13980486). Could be probably read separately, but some of the references won't be clear that way.
> 
> I've tagged the warnings in general, and I'll add more tags as the story progresses as some could be spoilers.

The double door flies open so unexpectedly that Giampaolo almost makes a red smudge across the canvas, and he shoots a furious look at the man who walks inside the room graciously. Which, Riccardo thinks, he really shouldn’t do, as the man in question is the Duke’s nephew and the heir to the Duchy, but luckily for Giampaolo, he doesn’t even bother to look in Giampaolo’s direction.

“You look stunning, uncle,” he says and only a deaf man could believe he really means it. “The delegation that’s just left after waiting for your audience for two hours would surely appreciate it.”

“Alessandro, if you haven’t noticed, I’m a bit busy at the moment,” the Duke says. Riccardo just marvels at how both of them sound like they couldn’t be bothered by what the other has to say, but they obviously want to murder each other.

“Pardon me, I thought that having another mediocre portrait painted by another mediocre artist wasn’t more important than the state affairs,” Alessandro says, and Riccardo wonders if he should hold Giampaolo back before he jumps over the canvas and strangles him. “Apparently, I was wrong. I apologize.”

The Duke sighs deeply. “I was also wrong. When I thought sending you to a military academy would ensure you don’t grow up into an insupportable brat,” he says. “I should have had you raised in a convent.”

To Riccardo’s amazement, Alessandro laughs like he finds the idea incredibly amusing. If Riccardo is to be honest with himself, he does, too. Sending this man to a convent would be a terrible idea. In Riccardo’s opinion, he could make Saint Peter sin.

“True,” he says. “Maybe I would understand art, then.”

He takes an apple from the meticulously arranged bowl that is a part of the background, and bites into it. Giampaolo looks like he’s about to have a fit.

“But I understand war and if you don’t want this portrait to burn before it even dries, since oil takes about a month to dry completely… see, I know at least something… then you should really read this letter.”

The Duke closes his eyes briefly and then gets up. “We’ll end the session here,” he says. “I’ll let you know about the next one.”

Giampaolo presses his lips together and bows, very stiffly, doing his best to ignore Alessandro. Riccardo follows his example, but as soon as the door closes behind the two men, the feigned composure of them both is gone.

Giampaolo throws his brush in the corner, making a red splatter land on the polished wooden floor. “Such a prick, I…”

Riccardo laughs. “Come on, can’t you get a new apple? If he ate the canvas, I’d get it, but…”

“No apple will ever be similar!” Giampaolo snaps. “And I was in the middle of painting this one, how am I supposed to…”

“Imagine it!” Riccardo rolls his eyes. “Make it up. Who is ever going to look closely at the fruit anyway?”

“Do I have to remind you some people looked closely enough at the portrait of the Pope to see the fly on the fruit?” Giampaolo looks at him.

“Oh, the Beelzebub!” Riccardo grins. “Well, don’t paint animals and you’re good.”

“And the Duke had to choose green clothes. Green! Who does ever choose green? Who wants to look like a giant frog?” Giampaolo rants on.

“Isn’t it a family thing or something?” Riccardo shrugs. He knows that the noble families are all about symbols and mottos and colors and emblems. But truth is that Alessandro was dressed like he couldn’t care less about what was on his body, and his only motto seemed to be “Make people mad in the smallest amount of time possible.”

“I don’t even have that much green,” Giampaolo mutters.

“Well, that is my problem, isn’t it?” Riccardo smiles. “Who mixes your paint anyway?”

“It is _my_ problem, because I don’t have any money to buy pigment!” Giampaolo snaps. “And I’m only getting paid after I finish this atrocity.”

“The Duke should give you the money, then. A… how is it called? Deposit?”

Finally, Giampaolo stops looking like he wants to murder something. “Right,” he nods. “Though probably, the Duke will be busy now. I should go to this… Conte, or what he’s called, who’s in charge of money… I’ll go see him right away.”

Riccardo just shakes his head and goes to wipe the floor before the paint ruins it for good.

 

~ ~ ~

 

An hour later, Giampaolo runs inside their room and bangs the door behind him. “I’m so fed up with this place!” he yells. “I hate it!”

“I guess Conte didn’t give you the money,” Riccardo says.

“Conte didn’t even _see_ me!” Giampaolo spits. “One of his dogs only told me that I would get the money if I were an official court painter, but since I am not that yet - _yet_ , as if I wanted to work for these madmen - they won’t give me anything until the painting is done and approved of.”

Riccardo hands him a cup of wine he was about to drink himself. Wine is one of the things there is never a shortage of here. There is always enough food and drink, and nobody really cares about how much they eat or drink. It’s a pleasant change from the time in Florence… or any other time of Riccardo’s life.

“Trying to talk the Duke into wearing a different color is probably out of question,” Riccardo muses.

“He’s in love with the green at the moment, it seems,” Giampaolo sighs.

“Then what?”

“Well, we’ll have to make our own pigment, it seems. It will not be of such quality as if we got malachite or even verdigris, but it will have to do. If he’s a scrooge, then he can’t expect it to look good,” Giampaolo says through gritted teeth. “He will likely not commission anything else from me, but I don’t care. The sooner I’m gone from this place, the better.”

“Why do you say this about every place we ever go?” Riccardo asks and looks at him.

Giampaolo pauses. “What?”

“Every time we could stay somewhere, you want to leave. No place is ever good enough for you. Why do you do this? Why do you keep running away from everywhere?”

Giampaolo sits on the edge of the bed. “I…” he starts and looks up at Riccardo.

“You had to run away from Venice, I know. And maybe from Rome, after that scandal with the Pope’s portrait. Why you ran away from Florence, I don’t know, maybe the plague, if you really want an excuse. But Milan? Verona? And now… there’s nothing to run away from here, Giampaolo,” Riccardo says and takes his hand. “Nothing is chasing you anymore.”

“No,” Giampaolo whispers. “But what is worse, being chased, or being kept in a cage?”

Riccardo smiles sadly. “If this is a cage, lock me in it for life,” he says. “I better go to the gardens to see what we can use for painting.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

The scent of the crushed leaves and slowly withering flowers is overwhelming. Riccardo’s head has been pounding for the last hour and he’s longing for fresh air. Giampaolo, however, has been grumpy all morning, since he’s unsatisfied with how his half-imaginary apple has turned out, and Riccardo knows better than to give him another reason to rant.

Just as he starts to think about at least sticking his head out of the window for a moment, the door screeches. Riccardo turns around and almost drops the mortar on his foot. Alessandro is standing at the door, leaning against the doorframe, watching him. It takes Riccardo a moment to find his voice.

“Do you need anything, Your Grace?”

“I was looking for my uncle,” Alessandro says. “But I see he isn’t here.”

“Why should he be here, Your Grace?” Riccardo asks. He is surprised that Alessandro even found their place. Giampaolo keeps complaining about being given the worst room there is, with terrible light, and too many steps to climb.

Alessandro smiles and walks in. “Oh, if you knew uncle Massimiliano as I know him, you’d know that he’s able to look at his portraits for hours. And tell painters how to do their job. That’s why we don’t have a court painter. None last for more than a couple months.”

“I’m afraid it will be Giampaolo’s case as well,” Riccardo sighs.

“Afraid? I got the impression he didn’t want to stay anyway.”

“No, but I do,” Riccardo smiles sadly and looks at him.

Alessandro sits at the table and looks at the pile of leaves and blossoms. “What do you need all these flowers for?”

“The leaves. Green pigment,” Riccardo explains and tears another leaf off.

“Lily of the valley,” Alessandro smiles. “My favorite.”

Riccardo just stares at him. Are men even supposed to have favorite flowers? Does _he_ have his favorite flower?

“Simple, innocent, fragile… but also deadly,” Alessandro says, picking up a flower and smelling it. “It’s said it sprang from Eve’s tears when she was leaving the Garden of Eden.”

Riccardo wants to say something about this flower not suiting Alessandro, since he knows from Giampaolo that it symbolizes humility in religious paintings, but holds his tongue. After all, who is he to tell anyone what flower they should like?

“Why not buy the pigment instead, though?” Alessandro asks. “I think the merchants here sell decent quality dyes. I don’t know about pigments, but I suppose it’s the same thing.”

“Giampaolo ran out of money, and he’s not getting paid until the painting is finished,” Riccardo shrugs.

“Why doesn’t he ask for deposit?”

“He wanted to. Conte didn’t even talk to him.”

Alessandro chuckles. “Antonio is a busy man… though I suppose he sometimes does it just to spite people and he has nothing else to do than to drink wine and watch his hunting trophies,” he says and pushes the chair back. “Anyways, you should write an official request to him, then he has to at least respond to it.”

“But I can’t write.”

Alessandro stops in the middle of his movement. “Oh.”

“I mean, I can write my name,” Riccardo says with a pride in his voice that fades when he sees the amused spark in Alessandro’s eyes. “You must think I’m a stupid peasant now.”

“No, I actually find it lovely,” Alessandro smiles. “And I envy you a little bit.”

“Envy me?”

“When you can read and write, people expect things from you,” Alessandro sighs. “Like writing letters and reading complaints…” He looks around the room with something akin to regret. “This life… must be so much simpler.”

Riccardo doesn’t correct him. He somehow doesn’t have the heart to take the illusions of romanticized poverty from him. Suddenly, he even believes it somehow, he even sees his life through Alessandro’s eyes, and he indeed likes how simple it is.

He notices too late the small canvas peeking out from behind one trunk, only realizing it is there when it catches Alessandro’s attention. Before Riccardo can stop him, he picks it up and gives it a critical look.

“This actually looks half decent,” he says. “Maybe he’s not so hopeless.”

“Giampaolo didn’t paint this,” Riccardo says and looks at him sheepishly. “I did.”

Alessandro gives him a surprised look. “You? You can paint?”

“I learn by watching,” Riccardo shrugs. “And trying.”

“I see,” Alessandro smirks. “Does the Maestro know you are dabbling in his field of work?”

“No,” Riccardo says and narrows his eyes. “I swear, if you tell him…”

Alessandro raises his brows. “Then?”

Riccardo bites on his lip. _Oh damn._

Alessandro laughs. “No, go on. I want to know what you will threaten me with,” he says. “You’re already in trouble, better make it worth it.”

“Then you’ll have my blood on your hands because Giampaolo will murder me,” Riccardo says, taking the safest way out. “Could you live with that?”

“Probably yes,” Alessandro shrugs and puts the canvas back, hiding it better than Riccardo had bothered to. “But one of my teachers said we should never spill more blood than is absolutely necessary.”

“How much blood is necessary?” Riccardo looks at him.

“A river to win a war, and one drop to sign a contract with the Devil,” Alessandro smiles and tucks the lily of the valley behind Riccardo’s ear. “Do angels sign contracts with the Devil?”

“How would I know, Your Grace?” Riccardo asks.

“I saw your portrait in Florence,” Alessandro smiles. “I recognized you even without the halo.”

Riccardo knows that he’s blushing. “I thought you didn’t care about art.”

“I don’t. But it’s hanging in the Duke’s dining room,” Alessandro shrugs. “What’s your name?”

“Riccardo.”

“I’ll have to get used to it, I’ve already started to call you Gabriel in my mind.”

“I don’t think it was Gabriel who witnessed the resurrection of Jesus,” Riccardo frowns.

“Who cares?” Alessandro smirks. “I know only slightly more about religion than I know about art.”

Now that is something Riccardo can agree with. Giampaolo calls him a bloody heretic or a godless bastard every second day. Usually when Riccardo refuses to feel guilty after they make love.

“I better go find my uncle. If he’s not admiring his portraits, he will be counting his money,” Alessandro sighs. “Spending too much on the banquets and too little on our army. Maybe when an arrow flies through one of his portraits, he will finally start to listen.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Riccardo wakes up late. The room still smells like lily of the valley, fresh, green, and intoxicating. He gets up and opens the window to get the smell out a little bit more, but the window leads to the garden and it only adds another whiff of floral scent.

Giampaolo runs in as Riccardo is washing his face with cold water, hoping it will make the dizziness go away.

“This Conte is apparently mad!” he announces. “First he has me kicked out of his rooms, and now he sends me this!”

Riccardo looks at the piece of paper Giampaolo is holding. “What is this?”

“A blank bill. Apparently, I can buy all the pigments I need.”

Riccardo almost makes a grab for the paper before remembering that he can’t read. It’s like he wants to know that it’s real. That _he_ is the cause of this, because he knows that Conte didn’t change his mind just like that.

“That’s good news, isn’t it?” he grins instead. “Maybe it’s not so bad here.”

“It’s bad enough,” Giampaolo mutters. “But fine. Let’s go see what they have to offer.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Modena is different from Florence, in the better sense of the word. The market is fuller, like this city realizes that people care more about food on their plates than jewels and paintings. There is fresh bread and vegetables that aren’t rotten, and if Riccardo wanted to eat, he wouldn’t even have to be exceptionally rich to afford it.

The shop with pigments and dyes is hidden in one of the side alleys, just behind the market place. It’s bigger than any of the shops Riccardo has ever seen in Milan or Verona, and the contented expression on Giampaolo’s face only confirms Alessandro’s words about the quality of the goods.

“I wanted to get verdigris, but maybe the Duke’s clothes were more verdeazzuro?” he mumbles.

“You don’t remember?” Riccardo asks.

“I tried to look at the obnoxious thing as little as possible,” Giampaolo glares at him.

“Verdeazzuro,” Riccardo says. “They were definitely bright green.”

“I hope you’re not saying that only to have less work,” Giampaolo says, but asks the merchant for malachite.

Riccardo just smirks. He would prefer the opaque colors any time, just because mixing them with lead white or yellow is a tedious process. Well, mixing them to Giampaolo’s taste is a tedious process.

“And you should get some more chalks,” Riccardo reminds him.

“Yes,” Giampaolo says, tearing his gaze regretfully from the ultramarine pigment he is rarely able to afford. “I don’t know where they go, really. I’ve never used up so many in such a little time.”

Riccardo just shrugs and pretends that he’s interested in the gold leaves the merchant keeps conveniently out of customers’ reach. Maybe he doesn’t even pretend that much, since Giampaolo has to drag him out when he’s leaving.

“You’re really a magpie,” he says. “If it shines, you want it.”

“Why do I want you, then?” Riccardo asks and starts to run before Giampaolo catches on.


	2. Two

Having to attend the Sunday mass is one of the few downsides of the life at court. Although during the week, the Duke cares little about what people do, on Sundays it’s unthinkable not to go to church. Even the last servant has to be there, and they are usually crammed on the balconies. Riccardo suspects that the Duke wants them to witness how devoted he is, and how much money he gives to the church.

The closer to the altar, the higher rank, that’s a rule Riccardo has already understood. He also thinks that if Giampaolo were the official court painter, he would have his place in the nave. Giampaolo, however, seems to be fine with his place on the balcony, as long as it doesn’t bind him in any way.

Riccardo looks down to the front row. Alessandro’s head is bowed and his eyes are closed, and if he had not talked to him before, he would buy into this illusion of piousness, but he’s sure that Alessandro is not praying right now. His face looks perfectly serene, but blank at the same time. Like while everyone is thinking about what they’ve done wrong, he is just cleaning his head, and there’s absolutely nothing on his mind.

Riccardo glances next to him, but Giampaolo is apparently busy atoning for all his sins to even notice him, and Riccardo’s gaze returns to the front row without him even wanting it. The words about signing contracts with the Devil suddenly make sense. He should have other things on his mind now, he shouldn’t be looking at Alessandro’s face and trying to figure out his mysteries.

When the mass is over, by the time he gets down from the balcony, the Duke is already busy talking to some of his courtiers and pretending that he cares about what they have to say. Riccardo pushes his way through a group of other courtiers who hope that they will manage to talk Conte into raising their salary, as if he is more generous on Sundays. When he lifts his head again, he realizes that he’s standing in front of Alessandro.

He attempts a bow, but apparently his courtly manners are not yet perfect, since it brings out an amused sparkle in Alessandro’s eyes.

“You bow like a lord,” Alessandro says. “People like you usually bend their backs.”

“I’ll try to do better next time, Your Grace,” Riccardo says.

“Don’t you dare. I hate people who bend their backs.”

Riccardo looks around, but Giampaolo is nowhere to be seen, which means he is not likely to overhear them.

“I wanted to thank you,” he says.

Alessandro raises his brows. “For?”

“I know you talked to Conte about the deposit.”

“Oh, this…” Alessandro smiles. “It was worth seeing the shock on Antonio’s face.”

“Why was he shocked?”

“Because he thinks I’m an idiot,” Alessandro says calmly. “Everyone in this palace does. An idiot who knows nothing about art, politics, or anything of importance. They think that the only thing I know is how to use a sword. And make a fool out of myself at banquets, sometimes.”

“Why would they think that?” Riccardo frowns. If he can judge from the one conversation he held with Alessandro, he is everything but an idiot.

“Because I want them to think that,” Alessandro smiles, walking by his side like Riccardo is a lady he is escorting. “As long as they think that, I’m safe. Uncle Massimiliano doesn’t fear I’d want to usurp the throne, Antonio isn’t afraid I’d find out about him stealing money from the treasury, uncle’s advisors aren’t afraid to discuss things in front of me. And when uncle thinks me too annoying, he gives me a new horse or sends a beautiful woman to my chambers, so that I’ll leave him alone for a while. Why would I want any of them to know that I have a brain?”

Riccardo doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t know what to say to something like that, because he’s too shocked to hear something like that, and also mesmerized by having a genial plan unfolded in front of his very eyes.

“Anyways, that’s why I won’t be doing you such favor again,” Alessandro says and looks at him. “Which means that you should learn to write.”

Riccardo laughs. “I think I’m too old to learn, Your Grace.”

“If you call me ‘Your Grace’ once more, I’ll have your tongue cut out.”

Riccardo frowns. “Don’t noblemen have peasants’ tongues cut out when they _don’t_ call them the proper style?”

“Other noblemen like to be reminded of who they are. I, for once, would like to forget about it.”

“Don’t you want that throne?” Riccardo raises his brows. “I thought it was the only thing that you wanted.”

“It’s by no means the _only_ thing that I want, but I do want it. Except, it’s still far from my reach, and until you sit on it, you’re never safe. You’re not safe even when you finally do, but still safer than where I stand now.”

Riccardo realizes that this is the second and third time in the last few minutes that Alessandro used the word “safe”, without maybe even realizing it, and he starts to understand his longing for a simple, albeit poor life.

“Why is that?”

“Countless cousins that want you dead, ministers that know you’d take their posts from them once you’d have the power…” Alessandro shrugs. “Rulers don’t die mysteriously. There are too many eyes watching. But heirs, oh, they do.”

They are now standing outside the cathedral, and something changes in Alessandro’s posture. Like some weight has just lifted off his shoulders and he finally stands as tall as he really is.

“I hate churches,” he says. “If there’s one place I always feel trapped, it’s there.”

“Why?” Riccardo asks. He doesn’t really get the appeal of churches, but he doesn’t feel _trapped_ \- after all, every church has a door, and he can walk out whenever he pleases.

“You lived in Florence, didn’t you?” Alessandro asks. “Have you never heard about Giuliano de’ Medici?”

Riccardo wrecks his brain, because he doesn’t want to look like a stupid peasant again, but he’s not good with names and history, as they are mostly in books - which he can’t read, obviously. But he’s able to connect the dots this time, because Alessandro provides him with enough prompts. “The one they murdered in the Duomo?”

Alessandro nods.

“I don’t think this is the place anyone would choose to murder you,” Riccardo says. “Why would anyone try to murder you when you’re surrounded by people who apparently love you very much?”

“There were ten thousand people in that church, and they loved Giuliano well enough,” Alessandro shrugs. “And still his murderers managed to stab him nineteen times.”

He unglues himself from Riccardo’s side just in time, as Giampaolo finally pushes his way through the crowd. “Have a blessed Sunday, Angel,” he says and disappears among the courtiers.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The painting takes more time than Giampaolo would like, to Riccardo’s joy. The Duke seems to be busy more often than not, planning banquets, going hunting, discussing things with Conte, ignoring everything of importance and spending money on everything that isn’t the army, which apparently drives Alessandro crazy.

The work is actually stalling so much that Giampaolo takes on a commission for the archbishop. Riccardo fears that it’s not going to sit well with the Duke, but apparently even if he is mad about it, there’s not much he can say against it and not fall out of the archbishop’s good graces. As for Riccardo, he rejoices as it seems to make Giampaolo happier, since it’s not a portrait but a religious scene, and Giampaolo would always prefer those over a picture of someone dressed like a giant toad. The only critical moment is when he sets his eyes on a certain servant as his model for the penitent Mary Magdalene. As it is supposed to be a semi-nude picture, the servant in question of course sends Giampaolo to hell. Which in turn makes Giampaolo grumpy again, until he walks in his studio one day and finds the girl covered with nothing but a piece of sheer fabric and her hair, and Riccardo smiling triumphantly. He loses his voice momentarily, and Riccardo just looks at him in a “did you even try?” way.

The work engulfs Giampaolo so much that he doesn’t even speak of leaving anymore. He doesn’t speak much at all, if Riccardo is to be honest with himself. It’s almost like he’s trying so much not to get attached to this place, anything or anyone in this place, that he lives in his own little bubble where he is alone with the canvas. He could be anywhere in the world like this, and Riccardo starts to understand why it’s so easy for him to leave every time.

When the layers need to dry and Giampaolo has momentarily nothing to do, Riccardo finally manages to convince him to leave the studio full of paint fumes, and get some fresh air. More than caring for Giampaolo’s health he hopes that if he shows him the beauty of the palace, he will not want to leave, but he has little hope that flowers and fountains could change Giampaolo’s mind.

The garden is in full bloom, and when they pass through the blooming rosebushes, they realize that they are not the only ones enjoying the sunny day outside. Riccardo knows who they are about to find a moment before Giampaolo makes the last step, because he recognizes the laughter, despite having heard it only once. He has no time to hold Giampaolo back, though, and so Giampaolo walks straight onto Alessandro and Antonio Conte kissing on the white bench behind a small fountain.

More than the consequences it could have, Riccardo fears the impact witnessing the scene will have on Giampaolo, because instead of quietly retreating, Giampaolo starts mumbling something unintelligible and just stares at the two men until Riccardo drags him away.

When they make it to a safe distance, Giampaolo turns to Riccardo with horror in his eyes. “How do I unsee what I’ve just seen?” he asks.

“You’re not obliged to paint this,” Riccardo shrugs. “So it’s not your business.”

Giampaolo is apparently disgusted by the mere idea of having to paint the scene. “I told you this place was horrible, it’s… it’s a nest of sin…”

Riccardo rolls his eyes. “You act like you’re the Pope,” he says. “Even the Pope wouldn’t make such a big deal out of witnessing a kiss.”

Giampaolo looks like he’s about to cry. “But a kiss between _who_? Jesus Christ, the wicked bastard and the slimy monster, I…”

“Wait, I’ve lost track of who is who!” Riccardo says between hiccups, trying to catch up with Giampaolo, who seems to be determined to disappear in the palace as quickly as humanly possible. “Pazzo! Which one is the slimy monster?”

“Leave me alone, you godless bastard!” Giampaolo barks and runs up the stairs.

Well, this attempt to make him stay definitely didn’t go as planned.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Riccardo is trying to improve his sketching skills when a shadow falls on his paper.

“Are you alone here?” Alessandro asks.

Riccardo nods and shades his eyes from the sun to look at him. “Giampaolo is still recovering from witnessing your meeting with Conte.”

Alessandro smirks. “You are not, it seems.”

“I’m no one to judge you, Your Gr-” he bites on his lip just in time.

“Ale.”

Riccardo smiles. “I’m no one to judge you even as Ale and not Your Grace,” he says. “Simply because it’s your life. Your choice.”

“My choice…” Alessandro repeats.

Riccardo looks at him. “Is it not?”

“Yes, and no. I wouldn’t call it my choice, although it probably is… I call it trade.”

Riccardo laughs, and genuine surprise appears on Alessandro’s face. “A kiss for money or a favor? Not like I haven’t done it myself, although I didn’t call it trade. But see, I’m no one to judge you.”

“The worst part is that I’m doing it for money that is actually mine. Or will be one day,” Alessandro sighs. “But none of it belongs to me yet. Not even a single coin. When I want something, I can’t just take it. I have to find ways to get it.”

“We all do.”

“It’s just something I wouldn’t like to be known,” Alessandro says and looks at him.

“And it’s something Giampaolo doesn’t know about me,” Riccardo smiles. “Secrets exchanged are secrets kept.”

Alessandro nods and looks at the paper in Riccardo’s lap, the sketches of blooms and branches.

“Magnolias,” Riccardo says. “ _My_ favorite flowers. They look beautiful up in the tree, but you can’t really take them down. They wither and rot if you do. Beautiful and delicate as long as you just look. If you touch them, they turn to death.”

Alessandro smiles and sits in the grass, leaning his back against the trunk.

“Is your uncle still spending too much on banquets and too little on the army?” Riccardo asks, crumpling a piece of paper after trying to salvage the sketch in vain. “He hasn’t showed up to a painting session for a long time.”

“Oh, he is. You’ve noticed the preparations for the carnival, I suppose?” Alessandro smirks. “A masquerade ball that will cost as much as horses for at least two hundred men is just what this Duchy needs.”

“I’ve always wanted to see such a ball,” Riccardo smiles. “I mean, I’ve seen the street celebrations in Milan, but I think it can’t compare to a feast like that, in the palace.”

“I could get you an invitation,” Alessandro says, brushing a fallen petal off his lap.

Riccardo blinks. “Why would you do that?”

“Why not?” Alessandro shrugs. “If only for the fun of it.”

“Do you do a lot of things just for the fun of it?”

Alessandro laughs. “You don’t?”

Riccardo shrugs. It’s easy to forget who he is talking to. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like he has to watch his mouth while speaking to him, but he obviously does. “I lack the opportunities to do things just for fun.”

“Now I’m offering you one such opportunity.”

Riccardo shakes his head, but it costs him a lot of will. “Giampaolo wouldn’t like it.”

“Giampaolo doesn’t need to know,” Alessandro smiles. “It’s a masquerade ball. Nobody knows who is who. Nobody will know you were ever there.”

“I doubt that,” Riccardo frowns. “I wouldn’t even know what to do and how to talk to people. _Everyone_ would know I was there.”

“Well, invitations don’t oblige,” Alessandro shrugs. “And I think you wouldn’t be nearly as bad as you think.”

Riccardo smiles and shakes his head again. “I really don’t think it would be a good idea,” he says. “But thank you.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

The Duke agrees on another appointment just when Giampaolo is starting to consider throwing the unfinished painting out as the layers are almost too dry now, but he keeps giving orders for preparations even during the session. When he interrupts the session to decide whether a roasted duck will be better than a roasted goose, Giampaolo is already fuming.

“I’d rather paint the goose,” he mutters, waiting for the Duke to come back.

“No animals, Giampaolo,” Riccardo warns him.

But the talks of the ball annoy even him. Mainly when he realizes how close he was to seeing it, and maybe tasting the goose in question, and turned the offer down. Maybe he should have found the courage. Maybe Giampaolo really wouldn’t know. Or he wouldn’t mind. He knows Riccardo likes pretty things, after all.

That would be until he would find out about Alessandro’s involvement, though. If he hates someone in this palace more than Conte and the Duke, it’s Alessandro. Riccardo supposes that the eaten apple is not yet forgotten, and witnessing his secret rendezvous with Conte only confirmed to Giampaolo that Alessandro is the worst person that has ever walked this Earth.

“When do you think the portrait will be done?” the Duke asks when he finally decides on the goose.

“I can’t tell, Your Grace,” Giampaolo says carefully. “Our sessions are very… sparse.”

“I want it to be done before Easter,” the Duke says.

Giampaolo considers it, and Riccardo guesses that he is trying to figure out how to complete the portrait as quickly as possible. Without a doubt he can already see himself in another city by Easter.

“Because then, I have another commission for you,” the Duke continues and Giampaolo’s face falls.

He shoots a judging glance at Riccardo, whose face has without a doubt just lit up.

“I want something… shocking,” he says. “The archbishop has the Mary Magdalene, that’s already very risqué, but I really need something people will talk about when they see it hanging in my dining room.”

“A religious scene, then,” Giampaolo says, apparently relieved it’s not another portrait of the Duke in green. “Do you have anything specific in mind?”

“Of course not, that is your job!” the Duke says. “But I want it to be big. And…”

“Shocking,” Giampaolo says. “I will try my best, Your Grace.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Giampaolo closes himself in the studio with the Duke’s portrait, trying to paint as much from memory as he can, just to be done with it quickly. Riccardo readies his paint and brushes, and tells the Mary Magdalene that their session will have to wait. Then he leaves Giampaolo to his swearing and goes to his room.

When he lights the candles in the big candleholder on the table, he immediately knows that there is something in the room that wasn’t there before. A big package wrapped in thin paper and tied with a ribbon on his bed.

Riccardo turns to the door like he wants to make sure nobody is watching him. Then he approaches the bed carefully, as if the package could explode. He grabs the end of the ribbon and pulls, and jumps back at the same time before realizing that he’s acting really childish.

What spills out is light blue and gold, silk and brocade, or at least Riccardo thinks it’s brocade, because he’s barely ever seen it, never touched it. The threading on it looks so intricate that he can’t even imagine the work that was put into it.

On the top of the pile of clothes, there is a card made of thick paper. He can’t read anything that is written there, but the gilded curls can only mean one thing.

_Invitations don’t oblige._ Neither does a pile of clothes that probably cost as much as someone’s house, but damn, Lucifer should learn from Alessandro when it comes to tempting people.

Although he is determined not succumb to the temptation, he knows that he can’t let Giampaolo see the things, simply because he would probably pack their bags and run from the nest of sin and the wicked bastard, as he’s already nicknamed Alessandro for good, as fast as possible. He tells himself he will return the clothes as soon as possible and decides to store them in the trunk containing travel clothes, as it’s the most unlikely for Giampaolo to open, at least until he gets fed up with this place for good.

He puts them in reverently and covers them with his old cape. He bangs the lid of the trunk shut just a moment before Giampaolo walks in.


	3. Three

The palace comes alive early in the evening with the final preparations being made and the guests arriving. Giampaolo has to physically drag Riccardo from the window several times, since his magpie instincts are stronger than his concentration on work. 

When the night falls, the commotion outside stops.  _ The ball must have already started _ , Riccardo thinks to himself with a hint of chagrin as he looks outside the window of their room. Then he glances up the stairs. The studio is still lit by dozens of candles. Giampaolo is working on the last layers of Mary Magdalene, so that he can start working on the commission from the Duke, hoping he will have enough money by then to take off and leave the nest of sin, as he’s already renamed this place.

Before he knows it, he’s opening the trunk, like something’s possessed him. He pulls out the fancy clothes and checking that the door to the studio is still closed, he gathers the clothes and invitation in a bundle and sneaks out.

He changes in the shadows of the garden, and hides his own clothes behind one of the statues. Then he sneaks through the garden to the main staircase. There are still people getting out of carriages, and if he can judge, there is no way someone could guess he is not one of them, at least when it comes to clothes. No one spares him a look as he walks up the stairs and follows the others towards the great hall. Halfway through his journey, he catches himself wishing for someone to stop him, because he’s not able to stop himself.

But nobody does. The man in livery takes the invitation from him and without even bothering to look at it beckons the two guards to open the door for Riccardo.

The smell of mixed perfumes hits him in the face like a slap and his head spins. Everything in the room is dazzling, from the chandeliers to the golden statues and masks and dresses. Giampaolo would call it tawdry, but for Riccardo it’s mesmerizing. The music is playing and most people are dancing. Riccardo glues himself to the wall, hoping no one will notice him, and watches the dancing couples. 

It’s not hard to recognize Alessandro among them, dancing with a fair haired woman dressed in midnight blue and silver. They are not talking nor laughing, it seems like a controlled and ceremonious act, very different from what Riccardo could witness in the inn where he used to work, or in the streets during festivities. 

A servant stops in front of him, holding a tray full of cups. Riccardo reaches for one, hoping it’s what he’s supposed to do. Judging by the servants reaction as he smoothly passes him by and continues offering the wine to other guests, he guessed right. The wine is very different from the one he’s used to drink. Much sweeter and stronger. Riccardo isn’t sure how much of it he would need to get drunk, but he knows he has to be careful with it. 

The Duke is sitting on the throne, watching the dancing couples as well, drinking wine from a much larger cup than the ones the guests are given. Conte is by his side, or at least Riccardo guesses it’s him. He is constantly talking to the Duke, but the Duke never even acknowledges him.

Apart from these figures, he can’t recognize anyone. After all, there are way too many people at court all the time, and Riccardo doubts they even know each other by names. A few of them actually give him a smile like they’ve known him for ages, maybe just to be safe and not insult anyone who might be important. 

The dance ends and another begins, faster and somehow more cheerful this time. The spinning figures are casting flashes of gold and silver and Riccardo feels dizzy just looking at it. Or it might be the wine working its magic.

“You won’t try?” a voice says next to him.

“I’ve only ever danced with a broom when I swept the streets,” Riccardo says.

Alessandro laughs. “You said you learned by watching,” he says. 

Riccardo smiles. “Stop tempting me, Ale.”

“You saw me,” Alessandro shrugs. “If I can do it, so can you.”

“Except you’ve been doing this all your life.”

“But I’m really terrible at it, and I have absolutely no sense of rhythm or music,” Alessandro smiles and touches Riccardo’s cup with his. “Minuet is not that hard. The previous one. This is a saltarello. It’s gone out of fashion everywhere, but my uncle loves it.”

“Is that why you are not dancing right now?”

Alessandro laughs again, but there is something bitter in it.  “You should dance,” he says then. “If only to have the experience complete.”

Then he winks and disappears among the courtiers again.

It takes Riccardo at least two more dances to muster up the courage to make his way to the long tables full of food - he spends a while watching people eating just to know how he is supposed to eat the things. But once he thinks he’s figured it out, nothing can stop him. 

As he fills his plate with things he doesn’t even know, and isn’t even quite sure they will go together taste-wise, he looks at the dancing couples again. Alessandro is back among them, this time with a black haired woman dressed in red and gold. She places her hands on his shoulders and then he lifts her up and turns around. She laughs when he puts her down. There is certain difference in their interaction. Riccardo guesses that unlike the first woman, this one Alessandro actually knows, and they seem to get along well.

When Riccardo lifts his eyes to the throne, he sees the Duke watching the scene as well. If Riccardo’s eyes and the light aren’t deceiving him, he’s frowning.

He leaves the empty plate on the table, following other guests’ example, and washes his hands in one of the bowls with water. Some flowers are floating in it, and Riccardo can imagine Giampaolo cursing at the nobles being overly dramatic even when it comes to something as banal as washing their hands. He considers getting out of the room and quietly retreating to the gardens to change back and go to his room before Giampaolo notices he’s gone, but he can’t bring himself to leave. 

Which turns out to be a huge mistake.

Because when the music starts playing again, the woman in red and gold curtseys in front of him, and his heart starts beating faster. He takes her hand just because he guesses it would be extremely rude not to do it, and although he’s not prayed since he was a child, he’s praying now.

He watches the couple in front of them, and repeats the same movement, only a fraction of second later, but his partner doesn’t seem to mind. She asks him a few polite questions and he feeds her some lies as politely as he can, cursing Alessandro in his mind.

As soon as the dance is over and he kisses the lady’s hand, because everyone around him does it, he finds the nearest servant, grabs a cup of wine and downs it, carefulness be damned.

“You weren’t bad,” he hears behind his back. “Your steps need to be a bit shorter to match the lady’s, but you definitely learn by watching.”

“You sent her!” Riccardo says accusingly, turning around to face Alessandro.

“She wanted to dance with you, I just told her to try her luck!” Alessandro grins. 

“And who the hell did you tell her I was?”

“Does it matter?” Alessandro laughs. “You don’t know who she is either, and you are not likely to see each other after this ball is over. This is how it goes. You can be anyone you want to be tonight.”

“You should like these balls, then.”

“I don’t want to be anyone else,” Alessandro says. “I want to be myself. But that seems to be the only person I cannot be here.”

“How about elsewhere?” 

Alessandro looks over his shoulder to the throne, but the Duke is currently busy with the roasted goose. Then he nods and pulls Riccardo towards a door Riccardo hasn’t even noticed until now. He opens and closes it so quickly that nobody in the hall probably even gets a chance to notice.

The double door muffles all the sounds from the hall. Maybe not only the double door. The room has double walls, simply because there are books and scrolls lined up on shelves that reach the ceiling, and there is a thick carpet on the floor. 

Alessandro pulls off the mask and tosses it in the corner like it’s a piece of dirty canvas. Riccardo follows his example. “That’s better,” he says.

“Was it as you imagined it?” Alessandro asks.

“Even better,” Riccardo whispers. “It was like a dream. Feverish, but beautiful.”

“That’s because it was new to you. You’d get tired of it soon,” Alessandro smiles. “Watching your back all the time.”

Somehow, Riccardo wants to protect him from all of this, even though Alessandro doesn’t really look like he needs protection. There is just something about him that betrays the secret. His eyes are radiating warmth, large and trusting like a child’s, and Riccardo can imagine how much he has to defy his nature to survive in this world. 

“I’ve been watching your back, you know,” he whispers. “In church, every Sunday.”

Something glimmers in Alessandro’s eyes, and then he closes the distance between them and presses his lips against Riccardo’s, holding his face in both hands. 

Riccardo leans into the kiss like he wants to absorb all the warmth, like he can never get enough of it. When Alessandro lets go of him momentarily, he actually stumbles forward. He is definitely a little drunk.

The table in the middle of the room is covered by maps and what seems like important documents, but Alessandro swipes it off like garbage, making the papers fly around the room. Then he grabs Riccardo around the waist and spins him around, just the way he did it with the woman in red in the great hall, and sits him on the edge of the table. 

It’s different, so much different than with Giampaolo. Everything feels light, it feels right, it feels like it’s completely natural. At least for Alessandro. He doesn’t stop laughing, he’s laughing even into kisses, and it’s as contagious as a disease. He’s a completely different person than the scared boy Riccardo sees every Sunday in church, or the sad shadow walking the halls of the palace.

And as crazy as it sounds, Riccardo feels like he’s never been given so much love. 

He has also never felt this much guilty before for accepting it.

“You won’t tell Giampaolo about this, will you?” he asks, pushing himself up on the patterned carpet that is definitely more valuable than Riccardo’s own life, but Alessandro looks like he couldn’t care less about it.

“Why would I ever want to tell  _ anyone _ about this?” Alessandro says with a smirk. “On the contrary, I should probably have you killed before  _ you _ tell anyone about it.”

“If I told anyone about it, I would be killed soon enough,” Riccardo reminds him. 

“Secrets exchanged are secrets kept,” Alessandro smiles. “I just know that some people would love to use it against me. Antonio, for example.”

Riccardo frowns. “I thought Conte was your friend.”

“Friend?” Alessandro looks at him like he doesn’t know the word. “I have no friends here. I have enemies or allies. And Conte is definitely not my ally. He whispers in my uncle’s ear too much to be that.”

Riccardo chuckles. “Who doesn’t do that here?”

“Andrea, the chancellor,” Alessandro says calmly. “And most of the officers in the army. They will always follow the one that knows how to hold a sword, even if it’s an idiot, which gives me an advantage over my uncle.”

Riccardo lifts his eyes to him. “And what am I? Your enemy or your ally?”

Alessandro looks at him like he is really considering it. Like Riccardo could pull out a dagger at any given moment, and bury it in Alessandro’s heart.

“You? Well, you’re not my enemy… and you’re not important enough to be my ally,” he says then and smiles when he sees Riccardo’s offended scowl. “You could, actually, as well be my friend.”

Riccardo smiles and reaches for his shirt. Alessandro runs a finger across a dark line on his skin, close to his shoulder.

“What are those scars from?” he asks.

“Plague,” Riccardo says. “The boils.” 

Alessandro shakes his head in disbelief. “You survived the plague, and now you’re letting that dauber slowly kill you?”

Riccardo doesn’t know whether to defend Giampaolo’s art, or to be worried by Alessandro’s words. Or laugh, because truth to be told, Alessandro does sound a little bit out of his mind now. “Why do you think Giampaolo wants to kill me?”

Now it’s Alessandro who looks worried by Riccardo’s ignorance. 

“Don’t you mix his paint? Lead for white, tin for yellow, Cinnabar or Realgar for the red…” Alessandro says and touches Riccardo’s face gently. “Angel, practically everything you are handling is poison.”

Riccardo pulls the shirt over his head to hide his face for a while, because he simply doesn’t know what to say or how to even process Alessandro’s words. 

“I should go,” he says then.

Alessandro nods and gets up. “This way,” he says and opens the small door on the other side of the room. “There’s a staircase at the end, it leads to the gardens. You’ll find your way then.”

Riccardo nods. He feels like he should say or do something, but he just can’t think of anything. And Alessandro doesn’t look like he’s expecting anything, either. 

By the time he reaches the staircase and looks back, the door is already closed.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The Duke comes for his painting session dressed in his green coat, with a large golden chain attached to it. He insists on the chain being added to the painting, and as much as Giampaolo is fuming, nothing can change his mind.

Riccardo has to go all the way to the studio to get the pigment and mix the paint, since none of them had thought of adding this color to the palette beforehand. As he’s coming back to the hall, he comes across Alessandro and the man he had seen on several occasions, who must be Andrea, the chancellor Alessandro had mentioned to him.

Alessandro looks angry, the way he only looks when he’s discussing state affairs with his uncle. Andrea hands him something that looks like a letter. Riccardo doesn’t have much time to look, since Giampaolo is waiting for his paint, but from what he sees, it definitely doesn’t contain good news.

He only has time to hand Giampaolo the paint when he hears the quick steps approaching the hall. He jumps aside in the last moment, or else Alessandro would squish him with the door like a fly. Judging from Giampaolo’s resigned sigh, there is now indeed a brushstroke on the canvas that doesn’t belong there.

“Why did you do this?” Alessandro demands and throws the letter on the table with the fruit bowl. “Does diplomacy even tell you anything?”

“And does pride tell  _ you _ anything?” the Duke barks, rising from the chair. “I will not concede anything to a country ours could easily swallow!”

“Pride stops where people die unnecessarily!” Alessandro shouts back. “There were other ways around it!”

“Other ways! Your ways! You’d rather marry that whore than fight!” the Duke laughs. “But I don’t want to share anything with them, and especially not blood!”

“So you’d rather spill it,” Alessandro states. “And take another country’s freedom. Just like your ancestors took it from my family.”

The Duke is already fuming. “Exactly. And that’s why you will inherit a country that is actually visible on the map, but go ahead and curse me for it!”

Alessandro just shakes his head and turns his back to him. Riccardo goes to open the door for him, just because he thinks the poor door has already suffered enough. Alessandro pauses on the doorstep and looks at him.

“You don’t need to worry about your master leaving now, Angel,” he says. “He couldn’t leave even if he wanted to.”

Riccardo blinks. “Why?”

“Because the city gates will be closed,” Alessandro says and glances at the Duke. “We’re at war now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The toxicity of lead was already known in the Ancient Rome, and lead poisoning was even disputed as a reason for the downfall of the Roman Empire, but then the information was “lost” until the end of the Middle Ages. In the 17th century, people were starting to rediscover it. So if Alessandro dug deep in literature, he would actually find mentions of the toxicity of lead and other substances such as mercury (Cinnabar). So people should have known the stuff was toxic, but they either didn’t have access to the information, or they chose to just ignore it. Even Caravaggio could have died of lead poisoning caused by the toxic paint - there is evidence he suffered from the symptoms such as violent behavior, and a skeleton believed to be Caravaggio’s was found containing high levels of lead, and we don’t actually have any better explanation of the cause of his death.


	4. Four

“And you asked me why I wanted to leave,” Giampaolo says, kicking a dirty rag out of his way. “Why I’ve always wanted to leave! This is why! Because if you stay in one place for too long, its problems become your problems, and they will eat you alive!”

“Nothing is eating you alive, Pazzo!” Riccardo snaps. 

“No, not yet!” Giampaolo barks. “It’s only a matter of time, though. Until we’re starving in a city with closed gates, or until the enemy burns it to the ground with us inside, or…”

“Just stop being dramatic!” Riccardo rolls his eyes. “You heard the Duke… he wages the war because he’s sure he will win it.”

“Since when do you even understand politics and war?” Giampaolo mumbles. “You spend a couple months in Modena and suddenly you are a master strategist?”

Riccardo sighs deeply. “I’m just trying to see things as they really are. The city will not fall. So we stay here until the war is over, what is so bad about it?”

Giampaolo shakes his head. “You’re too blinded by the gold leaf covering this world,” he says. “Once it rubs off, you’ll see the filth underneath. But it might be too late by then.”

 

~ ~ ~ 

 

The hall is full of people. It’s almost like the night of the carnival, except there is no music and no masks on people’s faces, not visible ones at least. Also, since him and Giampaolo are there, it’s clear that what is going on is way more important than having a bit of fun.

“Dear lords and ladies, courtiers, friends,” the Duke says, and Giampaolo chuckles quietly. Riccardo has to agree with him this time. He doubts that the Duke thinks of anyone in the room as of a friend. “A good ruler always leads his army to victory. But you and I all know, time is unkind even to rulers, and there comes a moment when you have to leave your place to others. My health doesn’t allow me to fight anymore, as much as I would love to win this war for you. Luckily, I have a heir, and what better leader could our army have than the future ruler of Modena?”

An applause spreads through the hall, hesitantly, like the people are not sure if it’s appropriate. Riccardo thinks it’s not. The Duke’s smile suggests that his opinion is different.

Alessandro walks up the two steps that lead to the Duke’s throne, and gets on one knee in front of him.

“Nothing will please me more,” he says and lifts his eyes to his uncle. “Than to lead the army you should be leading, and possibly dying in a war you could have prevented, were you worthy of the chair you’re sitting in.”

The Duke leans forward, like he wants to get up from the throne. But he never does. Instead, he hits Alessandro in the face so hard it makes him lose his balance.

The room is so silent that Riccardo fears he’s gone deaf. Then Alessandro gets up from the ground, slowly. Riccardo is waiting for another angry exchange, but Alessandro only bows to his uncle and turns his back to him. 

Riccardo has never seen anyone have both tears and murder in their eyes before, but he would swear to God that there’s both in Alessandro’s eyes now.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The palace is unusually quiet in the upcoming weeks. The loudest sounds are coming from the stables and the soldiers’ barracks where the army is getting ready to head to war. Although seemingly nothing changes in the everyday life of the palace, there is worry written all over women’s faces, there is some urgency in the way servants and courtiers move. The air smells differently, too, of smoke and metal, of the countless swords being sharpened and polished, of the leather of shoes and saddles, and of fear. 

When the time comes, though, the fear miraculously vanishes. The army looks like it just stepped out of a painting, and as for Alessandro, nobody would believe that this is not what he’s aspired to all his life. He looks like he’s just going for a ride, and Riccardo thinks that although he’s never been in the army, and he has never held a weapon in his hand either, he wouldn’t be afraid to ride off to a battle with him.

He would most definitely die. But he wouldn’t be afraid to die.

He shakes his head wildly to get the ridiculous ideas out of his head. He would be scared to death if he was one of these soldiers, and probably also mad because the whole war is unnecessary and ridiculous. He is glad to be where he is now, and the best thing that can happen to him will be if nobody notices him.

“Well, the Duke will have enough time for the painting sessions at least,” Giampaolo mutters. “No banquets nor hunts for a while.”

“Is it a good thing, though?” Riccardo smirks. “That you will be his only amusement?”

“Definitely not,” Giampaolo sighs. “But after all, what else could I do until the war is over?”

_ Yes _ , Riccardo thinks bitterly.  _ And what else could  _ I _ do? _ Suddenly, it feels like the sun and all the warmth of Modena is leaving with Alessandro. Suddenly, he doesn’t want to stay as much as he used to. 

Giampaolo turns around and disappears in the palace, the cold and the show that is so uninteresting for him not giving him a reason to dwell on the terrace any longer. Riccardo stays, watching the lines of soldiers until the last horse passes through the gate and it closes with a loud thud followed by the screeching of chains. He feels the loneliest he’s ever felt in his life.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Riccardo startles when a shadow falls on the table where he is working on a sketch. He’s been able to hide his secret from Giampaolo until now, and he definitely doesn’t want to be caught so stupidly.

He lifts his head and his heartbeat slows down again. There is a servant standing on the doorstep, looking around with certain suspicion. “The chancellor wants to speak with you,” he says.

“With me?” Riccardo blinks. “Are you sure?”

It’s Giampaolo who handles all their affairs, contracts and bills, so there’s nothing the chancellor could need from him.

“Yes, I’m sure,” the servants says with certain annoyance. “Are you coming or not?”

“Well, do I have a choice?” Riccardo shrugs and throws the unfinished sketch inside the trunk, hoping that Giampaolo will not need anything from there until he has enough time to hide it better.

He follows the servant down the corridors to the great hall, which is now empty, but when Riccardo closes his eyes, he can still see the dancing couples and burning candles, hear the voices and music, and Alessandro’s laughter. It leaves him with a strange longing for something that was never his, but has somehow become a part of him.

Then the servant opens the door in the corner of the hall, the door Riccardo is already familiar with, and ushers him in.

The chancellor is standing at the window, looking at the empty courtyard. Then he turns to Riccardo and raises his brows, almost like he’s asking what he’s doing there.

“You wished to speak with me?” Riccardo asks.

“I didn’t, but it would seem I don’t have a choice.” The chancellor closes the window and makes a step towards him. “I’m Andrea. You probably already know that.” 

Riccardo nods and looks around. The room is a mess, full of open books and crumpled papers and old maps, and it kind of feels wrong. Riccardo has always imagined Andrea was a tidy person. Apparently, he gets too excited about his work sometimes.

“This is your office?” Riccardo asks.

“Yes,” Andrea says. “Why?”

“Just asking,” Riccardo mumbles and gulps when he looks at the table in the middle of the room, remembering the night during carnival.

The only organized area seems to be the little desk in the corner of the room.

“Sit,” Andrea says and points to the chair behind the desk.

Riccardo does. There is a bottle of ink and a quill, and a few scrolls of paper lying on the desk in front of him.

“What is this supposed to mean?” he asks.

“For some reason, I’m to teach you to read and write,” Andrea says. “And I’m going to do just that.”

“But… why?”

“Because it’s Alessandro’s wish,” Andrea says simply. “And you never question the wishes of people who have power over you.”

“I got the impression Alessandro didn’t have much power here,” Riccardo mumbles. 

“Yes, and no,” Andrea smiles, and Riccardo recognizes Alessandro’s favorite phrase. “In this palace, he has very little power. Outside these walls, he has so much power that his uncle is not in the wrong to fear him.”

Riccardo takes a breath.

“Enough talking,” Andrea says resolutely. “So, I suppose you’ve never learned how to read or write.”

Riccardo lifts his head proudly. “I can write my name.”

“Show me.”

Riccardo picks up the quill. He’s never used one, he’s tried with a piece of coal and then chalk, but never with quill and ink. It’s a painstaking process and he manages to tear the paper once, and he also has ink all over his fingers, but the paper boasts his name written in large letters when he’s done.

Andrea sighs. “Well, it’s a start.”

Riccardo feels like strangling him. “Do you even know how long it took me to learn this? And you call it a  _ start _ ?”

Andrea folds his arms. “You know six letters. Congratulations. Do you want to know how many the alphabet has?”

“Do I?”

“I’m not sure it wouldn’t scare you,” Andrea says. “Also, these letters are… how to say… good for writing nasty messages on someone’s door, but…”

Riccardo chuckles. Andrea doesn’t look like someone who would ever write a nasty message on someone’s door, but somehow, Riccardo gets the feeling that he had to do it at one point in his life. 

“If you want to write something of importance, you should use cursive.”

“You mean the letters with unnecessary curls everywhere, right?”

“Exactly,” Andrea nods calmly. “Except… I don’t really know where to start. I’ve never taught someone…”

“As stupid as me?” Riccardo asks.

“Someone your age,” Andrea says and sits behind his own desk, which is covered with piles of documents. “I don’t think I should pull out a board and draw pictures for you.”

“I learn by watching,” Riccardo says. “If it helps.”

Andrea shrugs and pulls a chair over to the desk. “Come here, then.”

Riccardo shuffles closer. Andrea picks up the quill with much more finesse, and somehow manages not to get ink on his fingers. Riccardo suspects some sorcery.

“This is A, as in…”

“Alessandro?” Riccardo offers.

“I’m glad you chose Alessandro and not my name, so yes, we will keep it that way,” Andrea sighs. “You already know the capital letter, and even the cursive is easy.”

“For you,” Riccardo mumbles, watching Andrea write the letter again.

“Your turn.”

Riccardo grabs the quill and tries to resist the weird instinct that tells him to stick out his tongue while tracing the letter on the paper.

“Now for B,” Andrea says and writes the letter on the paper.

“What the hell is that?” Riccardo laughs. 

“B,” Andrea says patiently. “As in…”

“Beelzebub.”

Andrea crosses himself. “I don’t think I want to know what you will come up with when we get to C,” he says.

 

~ ~ ~

 

“Is ink poisonous?” Riccardo asks while copying Andrea’s letters.

“What?” Andrea looks at him from his work. These quiet afternoons have become an anchor of Riccardo’s life. It feels like going to school, which is a luxury Riccardo never had. Giampaolo told him about school, and how he hated it almost as much as the teachers hated him. Riccardo was kind of jealous, which of course he could never admit to Giampaolo, unless he wanted to be called a fool.

“Alessandro told me that the paint I mixed was actually poison,” Riccardo shrugs. 

Something akin to understanding flickers in Andrea’s face. “He read that somewhere, don’t ask me.”

“I thought Alessandro hated reading.”

“Not if he is interested in something,” Andrea says and looks at him. “And he was interested in these things once.”

“Why?”

“His cousin, who was supposed to inherit this throne, died of a mysterious illness when they were both still boys. Mysterious illness wasn’t enough of an answer to Alessandro, because he hates mysteries. He buried himself in books then, mainly to escape the obligatory mourning at court… And he connected the dots. His cousin had a passion for painting, and also one bad habit. Licking the brush when the tip wasn’t fine enough.”

“No mysterious illness,” Riccardo whispers. “He poisoned himself.”

Andrea shrugs. “If Alessandro is right,” he says. “He kind of sees death everywhere.” 

“But death is everywhere,” Riccardo shrugs. “Just here in Modena, I think you don’t want to admit it.”

Andrea raises his brows. “Don’t we?”

“You’re too busy enjoying life,” Riccardo grins.

Andrea smiles. “Anyways, I don’t think ink would be good for your health if you decided to drink it, but I’ve never heard of someone doing that,” he says. “But don’t lick the quill.”

“Because it’s dangerous?” 

“Because it’s disgusting,” Andrea makes a face.

Riccardo grins and goes back to writing. The world finally feels less grim and lonely.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been longing to write a Matri/Montolivo myself since the amazing Just Ordinary Savages thing happened, and also, nothing wrong with that one (except it leaving me in an emotional distress), I kind of needed to give Ale an upper hand this time, and I figured the only way I could do this was through social status… since we know he’s no match for Monto otherwise (stupid soft side of him that’s showing even here). 
> 
> I know that both Allegri and Conte are bastards here, but hey, girl needs her villains.


End file.
